


Through the Looking Glass

by MillyVeil



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Amnesia, Depressing as hell, Post-Atlantis, Rodney isn't himself, Undisclosed injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-08-16 04:08:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20190427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MillyVeil/pseuds/MillyVeil
Summary: "I'm John," he says and picks up a framed photo from the second to highest shelf of the bookcase that lines the wall. He removes the post-it note that sticks to the glass and wipes away the thin layer of dust with his sleeve. He hands it to Rodney.The John Sheppard in the photo is grinning at the camera, his shades pushed up high on his head. His arm is slung casually over Rodney's shoulder, and he remembers gripping Rodney's jacket to keep him from walking out of the shot. Rodney's mouth is open and his finger is raised, and he's obviously trying to get some point or another across to the person behind the camera. Teyla, on John's other side, is smiling, too. But she isn't looking at the camera, she's looking at them and there is such fondness on her face. The mission patches on their sleeves, as well as the jumper beside them, have been digitally edited out. Atlantis is still classified, and the SGC doesn't take any chances."We've known each other for seven years," he tells Rodney. "We're friends."It's a terrible thing to consider that John has been over this with him so many times that the words don't feel all that foreign any more.





	Through the Looking Glass

**Author's Note:**

> Hands down my most depressing story ever. EVER. 
> 
> What made Rodney this way is not specified, not even in my brain, so you'll just have to come up with your own scenario :) 
> 
> Originally posted on LJ in 2006

The apartment is quiet when John pulls the key from the lock and pushes the door open with his shoulder. Stepping inside, he squeezes his eyes shut at the painfully bright light that assaults him. He fumbles blindly for the light switch on the wall and swears under his breath when he doesn't find it right away. Gazing into a naked 150 watt bulb really isn't his idea of fun right now, not with the headache that made its presence known long before lunch.

It's gotten increasingly bad in the past hours, and John is now at a point where he's thinking about downing one of the prescription migraine pills he finally admitted he needed about a year ago. But the pills are in the medicine cabinet in his own apartment, so that'll just have to wait, won't it?

There. Finally. His fingers find the switch and he breathes a sigh of relief. He bows his head and massages both temples gently for a moment, before shrugging out of his jacket and hanging it on the hook next to the door. At his feet, the high-powered xenon flashlight lies deserted on the floor, and he crouches down and switches it off.

The apartment opens up into the spacious living room and the kitchen, and he lets his feet fall a fraction heavier than usual against the floor, quietly whistling the tune that's been stuck in his head for days now. It has proven unwise in the past to move too silently.

Rodney's kitchen is empty and as painfully bright as everything else, and John turns off the overhead light as he enters; the light over the sink is more than sufficient. He deposits the takeout bags on the kitchen counter and pushes the door to the microwave oven closed with a sigh. The small lamp inside the oven obediently goes out.

He hunts down a bottle of over the counter painkillers and shakes out three pills, downs them with water straight from the tap. The counter edge is hard at the small of his back as he leans against it, and he rubs his eyes slowly, allowing himself a moment to just breathe. God, he doesn't remember feeling this tired and worn since the early days in Atlantis.

A note on the counter catches his attention. He snags it and reads it in the light over the kitchen sink.

_John, your pager is in the second drawer //Jeannie._

He shakes his head and pulls out the drawer. What do you know, there it is. He clips it back onto his jeans and pulls the t-shirt down over it before going to hunt down Rodney.

The TV is on mute in the equally illuminated living room, and as John passes he recognizes the program; it's one of those reality shows that the syndicated networks insist on inflicting on the general population. A blonde girl with an extremely low-cut top and too much make-up is pointing and screaming silently at someone else off-screen.

He knocks softly on the closed bedroom door.

"Rodney?"

There is no answer.

"Rodney," he tries again, a little louder. John leans his forehead against the door and shuts his eyes as he waits. No sound comes from the room. "I'm coming in," he says without moving, and waits another couple of seconds before slowly opening the bedroom door.

The bedroom is no different from the hallway and the kitchen, lit up and bright to the point of painful. Rodney is reading, elbow leaning against the dark, worn surface of the desk, cheek resting on the heel of his palm. He is dressed in light jeans and a dark t-shirt, and just looking at him like this, you would never know. Not in a million years.

Rodney looks up. "Hey," he says.

"Hi, Rodney." John tries to smile a little, but it falters when Rodney doesn't return it.

The lights should have tipped him off. And they had, he'd suspected it as soon as he stepped inside that door, but dammit, suspecting it doesn't mean you're ever going to be ready for it, and it does nothing to ease the raw ache in him now, because John suddenly knows, he _knows_ what the next words out of Rodney's mouth will be.

"Are you one of Jeannie's friends?" Rodney asks, and bland curiosity colors his voice.

The words are spoken clearly, if somewhat slowly, but something about the inflection makes John think of dissonant tones and false chords. It's so wrong.

"I'm John," he says and picks up a framed photo from the second to highest shelf of the bookcase that lines the wall. He removes the post-it note that sticks to the glass and wipes away the thin layer of dust with his sleeve. He hands it to Rodney.  
  
The John Sheppard in the photo is grinning at the camera, his shades pushed up high on his head. His arm is slung casually over Rodney's shoulder, and he remembers gripping Rodney's jacket to keep him from walking out of the shot. Rodney's mouth is open and his finger is raised, and he's obviously trying to get some point or another across to the person behind the camera. Teyla, on John's other side, is smiling, too. But she isn't looking at the camera, she's looking at them, and there is such fondness on her face. The mission patches on their sleeves, as well as the jumper beside them, have been digitally edited out. Atlantis is still classified, and the SGC doesn't take any chances.  
  
"We've known each other for seven years," he tells Rodney. "We're friends."  
  
It's a terrible thing to consider that John has been over this with him so many times that the words don't feel all that foreign any more.

On a lower shelf is another photo. This one is of Ronon and John, side by side, with a backdrop of overgrown, crumbling stone ruins. John's smile is more guarded in his one, and he's shielding his eyes from the glaring sun with his hand. He's all geared up, a P90 clipped to his tactical vest. Ronon looks wary, and John remembers that he had only been part of the team a few weeks at that point.

There are other pictures spread around the room. Of Rodney alone. Of Rodney and Elizabeth. Of Rodney and Jeannie as kids. Of Rodney and Jeannie as adults. Of Samantha Carter. Carson. Zelenka. Teyla. Ronon. Ford. And a bunch of other people John has never met but who apparently were part of Rodney's life at some point. Most of them have the same tiny post-it notes attached to them.

Rodney is still staring intently at the photo, his square fingers splayed over the glass cover, uncharacteristically still. "I don't remember," he finally says without looking up. His shoulders drop a little.

John fingers the yellow piece of paper in his hand. _Teyla. John. Rodney. _"I know. Don't worry about it," he says and smiles a little at Rodney. It's more out of habit than anything else, because there's really nothing to smile about.

Rodney gives the photo back and John returns it and the note to the shelf. The photos share the wall to wall bookcase with the massive bulk of reference literature that Rodney has collected over the years. It covers everything from quantum mechanics to wormhole physics, Einstein's 1905 papers, and time-triggered, safety-critical communication protocols. John has never once seen Rodney open a single one of them in this room.

"Beautiful," Rodney suddenly says behind him. When John looks over his shoulder, Rodney is still gazing at the framed photo.

"What?" 

"Her," Rodney points. "She's beautiful."

"Teyla. You remember her?"

"Teyla," Rodney repeats the name, and it looks like he's tasting it. He shakes his head. "Is she a friend of mine too?"

"Yeah. But don't get any ideas, buddy." John grins grimly. "She'll kick your ass from here to Atlantis."

"I like my women feisty," Rodney smiles crookedly.

John's smile feels hollow, so he abandons it. He rubs his temples gingerly. "You hungry?"

Rodney seems to think about it, but in the end he only lifts one shoulder in a non-committal shrug.

"Well, I am," John says and walks to the door. He looks back over his shoulder at Rodney. "I brought food. Wanna join me?" He doesn't wait for Rodney to answer or to follow. In this mood, in this state, it's better to let him take his time and come when he feels like it.

John is digging through the fridge when he hears the soft padding of bare feet against the living room floor. A few moments later Rodney sticks his head into the kitchen. He looks around wearily, and reaches in and flicks the light switch on before entering. John winces at the light, but doesn't say anything. He pulls out the apple juice and fills up two glasses. He hands Rodney one.

"What do you have?" Rodney downs almost the entire glass and holds it out for more.

"Sushi," John says, and Rodney frowns. "You like it," John assures him as he refills Rodney's glass. "A lot."

"I do?" Rodney doesn't sound convinced.

"It's okay, you don't have to eat it if you don’t want to."

Rodney stares deep into his glass, the troubled crease remaining between his brows. "I don't think I want to."

John pretends he doesn't notice how Rodney sidles away as he reaches out to place a hand on his shoulder. He forgets that touching doesn't always work these days. He lets his hand fall to his side, forcing his fingers to relax. "No problem. What do you want instead?"

John moves to the fridge as he waits for an answer. On the wall next to it is a large day planner, with most of the days filled in with names. Jeannie. Kelly. Sometimes Leila K. And once or twice a week, penned with infinite care in blue ink, is John's name.

"Milk and cereal?" Rodney asks.

"There's lots of other stuff here," John says. He doesn't have to open the freezer to know it's filled with prepared meals and microwave dinners.

"Nah."

"All right," he sighs. "Milk and cereal it is." The milk is hovering around its expiration date, but John smells it and it seems okay. He hands it over to Rodney who does the same.

"You wanna eat in front of the TV?" John nods towards the living room.

"Sure," Rodney says without enthusiasm.

They have to make two trips to bring everything to the low table in front of the couch. John stops by the overhead light switch on his last round.

"Mind if I turn this off?" His fingers rest on the switch, waiting for Rodney to make the final decision. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't.

Rodney's stirring his bowl, but at John's words his head comes up and milk splatters onto the table. His eyes flit across the room to the light that filters out through the open bedroom door before bouncing back to John.

"We'll still have the TV and that one," John points at the lamp on the small side table next to the couch. It's big and ugly, with a blocky brass foot and tassels hanging from the red lamp shade, but at least the light is warm and soft.

Rodney doesn't say anything, just gets an unhappy, haunted expression in his eyes and scoots over, dragging the bowl and the box of cereal with him until he's perched in the corner of the couch, next to the lamp. John flicks the switch and waits for the outburst as merciful semi-darkness settles over the room.

But it doesn't come, and John is so very thankful, because his head is about to explode and he is _this close_ to curling up on the floor and doing a gremlin rendition of 'bright light, bright light'. When he sinks down on the soft couch, Rodney has pulled his bare feet up from the shadows on the floor and is safely enclosed in the ring of warm, reddish light.

John takes the remote and un-mutes the TV, but he makes sure he lowers the volume until it's barely audible. He just wants the background noise. After finding the National Geographic channel, he puts the remote down on the couch between them.

He pulls the chopsticks out of their paper wrapping and mixes a glob of wasabi with the soy. Picking up a piece of sushi, he dips it before shoving it into his mouth. They eat in silence, with colorful commercials flashing by on the screen. Fabric softeners. Dental whitening. Greasy fast food. John takes a large swig of the apple juice. Ten minutes ago he had been salivating at the thought of food. Now that he's finally eating, it tastes like dust in his mouth.

Rodney awkwardly changes position on the couch, so that he's sitting cross-legged, the bowl balanced on his knee. "Where's Atlantis?"

John looks up. When Rodney's in this headspace, this far away, he's usually a clean slate. He doesn't know John, doesn't know Jeannie or anyone else, doesn't recall his work or his passion for physics. And he never, _ever_ remembers Atlantis.

Rodney slowly pushes the spoon through the now soggy cereal and steadfastly refuses to look up. John notices that not much of the contents of the bowl have actually made it to his mouth, if any. "You, uh, you mentioned it when I asked about Teyla," Rodney says.

John tries to ignore the needle prick of disappointment. "So I did."

"Have I been there?"

"Yep."

"Did I like it?"

John thinks of the Wraith, of pain and fear, of watching people they care for bleed and die, and more often than not being unable to do anything about it. Then he thinks about large, impatient hands knowing every inch of his body and fire burning him from inside. He thinks of an acerbic tongue and distracted kisses and trust like he's never known before.

"Some of it," he says, and he hopes Rodney will ask more.

But Rodney seems satisfied with the answer, and his eyes turn back to the TV. John wants to scream at the wrongness of it. But he doesn't. Rodney reacts badly to loud noises.

Rodney lifts one hand to his mouth and starts to worry absently at his nails. The lamplight softens his drawn features and paints a warm halo around his hair. He wears it longer than before, but that has more to do with the difficulty of getting him to go have it cut than it has to do with any fashion statement. John sometimes brings out the scissors, but it's a fight, every time.

Before he can stop himself John reaches over and pushes the hair out of Rodney's face, back behind his ear, and Rodney doesn't flinch, but he goes still and stiff.

"What are you thinking?" John keeps his fingers curled lightly against Rodney's temple and he makes his voice as gentle and as unthreatening as he can, because he really wants to know. The hair is soft and warm under his knuckles and for a moment it looks like John will be allowed this small thing, this one small thing. But then Rodney's eyes begin to flicker, and then he's twisting out from under John's hand, and John is touching nothing but air again.

With a sigh he sits back and lets his head fall against the backrest of the couch. He closes his eyes and rubs them roughly. "Sorry. I'm sorry."

A few seconds later he hears the sound of the bowl being placed on the table and then the telltale white-noise flashes of channels rapidly flipped through starts up.

John drapes his arm over his eyes and sinks deeper down into the couch. He misses Rodney. It's not a new realization, but it's a painful one nonetheless. He misses the Rodney who knew a million scathing and inventive ways to let a person know that he or she was an irredeemable idiot, who snapped and groused and saved the day when nobody else even knew where to start. He misses the Rodney who trusted only John, the Rodney who would talk to him and listen to him and anchor him when his sanity was hanging by a very thin, worn thread.

This isn't his Rodney. John doesn't know the person who sits next to him tonight, and he doesn't want to.

He doesn't move. The non-sound of the channels rolling by is an oddly soothing lullaby, and John is exhausted, so he eventually drifts off. He snaps back awake some time later, and he doesn't know what woke him until he feels the couch dip a little. He doesn't move as Rodney curls up on the couch, head against the side of John's thigh. Rodney's hand slowly finds its way into the warmth under John's knee.

"John?" The word is a whisper.

"Hmm?"

“Were we good friends?" Rodney's voice is muffled.

John doesn't fool himself enough to believe that this Rodney is even aware of his own contradictory behavior – the push and the pull, the ‘stay clear but stay close’ - but he doesn't really care. He is desperate enough that he gladly accepts it, because like this, with his eyes closed and the warmth of Rodney next to him, he can at least pretend for a few minutes.

He reaches out and runs his hand slowly over Rodney's head. He wants to bury his fingers in the soft hair, but he has learned his lesson tonight and doesn't let them linger. "Yeah," he says. "We were."

* * *

John falls asleep with the sound of the TV in his ears and the feel of Rodney's fingers under his leg. His dreams are low-key and quietly unsettling, of abandoned rooms in blues and greens, and voices just beyond the edge of hearing.

* * *

When he wakes the TV is re-muted and the living room is bathed in harsh, cold light again. Rodney is nowhere to be seen.

Groaning and squinting, John tries to focus enough to see what the digital clock on the DVD player shows. 12:15 am. He glances towards the bedroom door. It's closed again.

He gathers the remnants of their dinner and takes it back to the kitchen. The overhead lamp is back on, the microwave oven door is open again, and the flashlight from the front door has found its way onto the table, painting jagged, white patterns on the opposite wall. John turns it off before rinsing out Rodney's bowl and putting it in the dishwasher. He throws away the food he couldn't finish on his own.

Sometime during the evening the rain has started, and the drops now play a heavy beat against the kitchen window. Beyond it, a car alarm comes to life somewhere in the wet city, and John downs two more painkillers. He goes through the small pile of mail that lies stacked on the table. It's mainly flyers and other useless things, but two bills hide between the papers. He puts them in the pile for Jeannie to pay later. It's not like Rodney will ever hit a financial dire strait, he's got enough money to last pretty much forever. And besides, the SGC is covering the medical bills.

John finishes cleaning up in the kitchen, then writes a note to Jeannie telling her what Rodney ate (she will not like that John let him get away with milk and cereal again) and reminding her to get more milk. He makes a final round through the apartment, turns off all the lights, and grabs his jacket before he checks in on Rodney. He knocks lightly on the door. Again, there is no answer, but there is light coming out from under the door and John opens it slowly.

Rodney, buried under a mountain of covers, rolls over and blinks owlishly at John. His hair is a little wild. "Hi," he says, and his voice is low and rough with sleep.

"Hey." John tries to give him a friendly smile. It feels fake and brittle. "I'm heading home now."

"Okay."

"You need anything?"

Rodney shakes his head. Untangling from the covers, he sits up. He cants his head a little and studies John for a moment. "Are you a friend of Jeannie's?"

John looks down at his sneakers, at the key that he's turning over and over in his hands, anywhere but at Rodney. "Yeah, I am. 'Night, Rodney."

* * *

He wraps his fingers around the steering wheel and leans his forehead heavily against his knuckles. It's so wrong. So fucking unfair. He squeezes his eyes tightly shut. He wants so badly to find his way back to what they had, where all was right with the world and Rodney was Rodney and he remembered Atlantis. Remembered John. But it hasn't been like that for a very long time, and John is tired and lonely and reality is such a _bitch_.

The rain against the car is a kind and soothing soundtrack, and afterwards, when he licks the salt from his lips and scrubs at his hot eyes, it feels like such a relief. He still feels like hell, of course – because nothing is like it should be and his head is about explode and god, sleeping right there in the car, hunched over the steering wheel, is seriously tempting - but at least he doesn't feel quite as much like a walking fragmentation mine just waiting to go off and tear into the people around him any more.

Tomorrow is another day, and then another, then another, and then it's his turn again and he will show up at Rodney's place, and if needed he will show him the photos and tell him one more time. John rubs the heels of his palms into his eyes and takes a deep, shuddery breath before starting the car.

* * *

It isn't until he steps out of his jeans in the blessed darkness of his own bedroom that John realizes that his pager has gone AWOL again.

~ The End ~


End file.
